Hey Mom,

Sniffed out some ghostly intrigue at North Chihuahua Castle today after a foggy detour from Red Beagle Beach. Turns out Spencerville’s got more spirit than a haunted kennel! Armor danced, Chihuahua ancestors glared, and I’m still your charming, spectral ‘Gus the Destroyer’. Just a day in the life of your phantasmal pooch. Scooby-Doo’s got nothing on me, eh?

Tail wags and dog kisses,
Gus the Destroyer 🐾👻

I pride myself on being something of a realist, despite my current incorporeal state. Indeed, life—or rather, the curious echo of life that we indulge in here in Spencerville—is rather spiffing, if I do say so myself. It is a realm where the once sad necessity of laws being confined solely to humans, or, as we prefer to call them, ‘the continually living’, has been entirely dispensed with.

My morning began at a leisurely quarter past eight, or so I would have you believe, for time here is as fluid as the feather-boated swans upon our illustrious Labradoodle Lake. Having no appointments at The Doggie Daycare (for every day is a holiday in Spencerville) or particular designs on sniffing out bargains at The Snooty Snout Boutique, I ventured towards my favored haunt. ‘Twas Red Beagle Beach, where the sands are as red as the traditional hunting coats found in old portraits, and the waves croon a lullaby to any salty sea-dog’s heart.

However, today, the beach was not as it usually appeared. A fog, thicker than the fleece of a Cocker Spaniel in dire need of a grooming, rolled in from the coastline. The ambiance was charged with an eerie energy—like the static of a cat’s back when you’ve made the mistake of giving it an unsolicited rub.

And then, quite unexpectedly, I found myself not upon the granular shores of Spencerville but upon the far more otherworldly and significantly less sandy grounds of North Chihuahua Castle. The transition was smoother than a fresh dollop of peanut butter upon a licking tongue.

I might have given a startle, had my bulldog bravado not insisted otherwise. You see, certain aspects of the supernatural tickle the fancy rather than rouse the alarm in a chap like myself. A castle? Delightful. Haunted? Intriguing. Mysterious? Undoubtedly.

I trotted along the castle’s corridors, where the portraits hung high, exhibiting the noble lineage of Chihuahuas who undoubtedly had once been paramount to Spencerville’s hierarchy. Their eyes followed with a fervor that indicated a less than ordinary circumstance.

And so it was no surprise when the suits of armor flanking the grand entrance to the banquet hall began to dance a jig most unbecoming of their stature. I would have applauded had I the appropriate appendages for such an act. Instead, I settled for a snort.

“Evening, ol’ chaps,” I addressed them, my voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. To be greeted by silence was rude, but I let the matter rest; after all, one must make allowances for the spectrally encumbered.

Passing an ethereal pooch of unknown breeding, I ventured next to the courtyard where tendrils of ivy created patterns that seemed to suggest secrets if one stared long enough. Or perhaps, that was just the squirrel spirits playing tricks on the eyes.

Returning from whence I came was as simple as recalling the joy of a cardboard box—to be precise, the satisfaction of leaping into one’s fortress of solitude. And in an instant, I stood once more upon the shores of Red Beagle Beach, the fog lifting like the curtain after an applause-worthy performance.

Spencerville, in its supernatural splendor, had presented an adventure both unexpected and marvelous. I was reminded that the parameters of existence here were as boundless as the meadows one might run through, as surprising as finding an extra treat in one’s food bowl.

Ah, but it was time for a feast at Pup-Peroni, where the pies were not of the oatmeal cream variety but rather of a more satisfying savory sort. And as I sat there, dipping my chops into the day’s special with gusto, I mused on the wonders of this spectral society.

Life, I pondered, is not all about the chase or the chew—but about the unexpected vagaries that make every moment worth savoring. And that, my friend, is why I’m rather fond of Spencerville, a place where one’s tail can keep wagging, unhindered by the limitations of what was once a decidedly more mundane existence.

The End.